


Coiled Mania

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Behind the Scenes, F/F, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06, Shameless Smut, Short One Shot, Smut, Top Dog Joan, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29358159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Maiden, Mother, and Crone come together, perhaps united by the toils of prison, the exploitation of need, or by the sense of kindred spirits.In other words, Marie and Sonia tag team to seduce Joan.
Relationships: Joan Ferguson/Marie Winter, Joan Ferguson/Sonia Stevens
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Coiled Mania

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a portion of a scene that delves into the theoretical "what could have been" for a potential Sonia x Joan x Marie dynamic. In Fall 2020 (Year of Hell that it was), @pamsbabe and I discussed this possible AU in which Joan, Marie, and Sonia were all in teal at the same time with Joan reigning as Top Dog on Twitter. Here's a short snippet of a hypothetical, smutty scene that's likely to never occur, but we can always dream.

Maiden, Mother, and Crone come together, perhaps united by the toils of prison, the exploitation of need, or by the sense of kindred spirits. Perhaps it’s the work of maenads and mania, a mythological phenomenon that cannot – will not – be described in further detail. Caught in a case of entanglement, two serpents coil around Joan Ferguson. They play their games, they wage their internal wars. As the reigning Top Dog, Joan consecrated herself as the cartoonish villain that all of Wentworth characterizes herself on, a Frankenstein abomination drowning in teal. Joan casts the necessary mold for herself, driven by survivalism and the past’s cruel haunt.

Situated on a cot, her back to the wall, Dante Alighieri’s _Divine Comedy_ sleeps on Ferguson’s nightstand. Marie Winter draws her knees towards her chest, a soft hand tracing the defined curve of Joan’s proud, clenched jaw. Marie pines for family, lost and found, to heal her own restless spirit, but this affair exceeds beyond maternal instinct. Daintily, she parts Joan’s thighs, coaxes them open so that she can perch prettily atop a muscular leg. Her grip clutches the thickness, or the contradictory thinness, of those teal sweats.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Marie breathes like she’s inhaling plumes of smoke, compassion reflective in the surface of her river-blue eyes.

Marie’s lips, pink and full, begging to be kissed and worshipped, caress the shell of Joan’s ear. She licks and she sucks, noisy and wet.

“Sweetheart, you provide a commendable service. Your loyalty is a trait to be admired,” Marie continues. She hums, sings honeyed praise that warms Joan’s heart. Such a voice could bend steel.

And Christ, does it.

On the opposite side, a woman so consumed by her cycle of consumption leers down from her high horse. Sonia Stevens indulges in her bourgeoise fantasies, so wrapped up in her patented image, while chasing pleasure’s meaningless pursuit. Sonia preys upon leverage, upon a dynamic she could manipulate for her personal gain. A sardonic grin, tight-lipped and cheap plastic, remains a fixed point as she straddles Ferguson’s unoccupied thigh. She feigns a pout, the way sullied starlets do, everything a mirror fabrication for such a slick, sick hedonist. 

Sonia drags her thumb along Joan’s parted bottom lip, green eyes ablaze, as she teases and toys. Her coiffed hair falls into her face, a mockery of a coil.

“Come now, Joan,” Stevens begins, mirth laced in her tone. Amusement flits across her gaunt, angular features. “Surely you can indulge in a decadent waltz. Let your partners lead.”

Two hands for gratification lay upon her chest rather than biting on the hand that feeds while their fingers ghost across Joan’s flesh and she burns at the stake, but remains grounded - the phoenix absolute, aflame, as she teases that emblazoned desire from two woman who exemplify polarity.

Sonia’s insipid remarks, her cruel barbs escalate in stark contrast to Marie’s warm praise.

Joan feels herself clench, as she emits a ragged breath, close to a muted moan. White-hot arousal pierces her, almost flays her.

“Let it out,” Marie coaxes. “You want me to suck out the poison, sweetheart?”

“Have you the courage?” Sonia sings before sinking her teeth into her neck.

Sonia drinks her blood like communion wine while Marie partakes in Joan’s body. A hint of her tongue peeks out, near serpentine in movement.

Caught in this frenzied delirium, Joan detaches herself from the wall to covet each one, to clutch them closer, as she pours over them like treasured, hoarded gold.

Sparing Joan of those Mary Magdalene tears, Marie softens for every harsh blow. She kisses the motley of bruises, drags her tongue the damaged patchwork of flesh.

Sonia and Marie rest their foreheads against Joan’s bare, cooling shoulders. Their chests pressed flush together.

With an insipid, stolen glare, Stevens brands Marie a worthless whore who fucked her way to the top. As everything mirrors everything, in the end, the slight pays homage to Joan and Allie's encounter in the shower since Marie guided Allie in the past. Sonia plays her games of petty exploitation for the sake of wicked entertainment.

Bewitched, Joan must be, the sensation comparable to what is experienced in fables and sold in film, a phenomenon that bleeds into poetry.

So, the carrion feast upon the dead.


End file.
